The Right Amount of DIHC
by veryoldhabits
Summary: Eight drabbles - the first four are examples of Liz's Drive, Intelligence, Humility, and Chaos, and the last four are about Jack and Liz's mentor/mentee relationship.
1. Drive

She reaches one hand up the back of her shirt to unclasp her bra and wriggles out of its straps, extracting its lifeless body from the inside of her left sleeve before collapsing onto the sofa: her first successful attempt at anything all week. Her new roommate's snores are the soundtrack to this pathetic scene. The flaps of the opened cardboard boxes scattered across the living room floor quiver, as though they are intimidated by the fighter jet intensity of Gloria's sleep apnea.

So this is Chicago.

Liz frowns, concentrating.

In college, things were simpler because the pool was smaller. Being the worst at something in a group of forty-two people is fine because it means there are only forty-one people who are better than you – it's easier to move up in the world, to go from playing Dead Body #3 to Rolf. Being the worst at something in an entire city filled to the brim with your competitors, with hundreds (if not thousands) of actresses and writers and comediennes, is more difficult. There's a bell curve. If you're not on top, you're either falling on your face or on your ass.

Through the window, streetlamps begin to turn on, beams of light skittering around like popping corn kernels. She watches as the clear, confident blue of the afternoon sky fades into a hazy purple, and wonders if that's how failure happens: a subtle, sluggish transition that might be totally imperceptible if the process didn't have a name.

_But_, she thinks, _if the sun can come back from all that darkness and resurrect itself every morning, I guess I can, too._


	2. Intelligence

"No."

The word sneaks out through gritted teeth, throaty and threatening, as her skin begins to itch with hot-blooded frustration. This conversation has all the weird, gaudy ornamentation of an escalating disagreement: diametrically opposing viewpoints, blooming irritation, someone who knows what they're talking about, and an idiot.

This time, Liz Lemon is not the idiot.

Fighting with Dennis is like driving into oncoming traffic. It's rarely, if ever, done on purpose, and once you're in the middle of it, there's no telling which way is up. His logic is circular and dependent on a series of increasingly intricate misunderstandings. Unfortunately, no matter how frequently she reminds herself that it doesn't matter if he knows that he's wrong as long as _she_ knows, there are times – such as today – when the temptation to prove his ignorance is too great.

On these occasions she cannot justify the existence of their relationship, the comfort and good humor she finds in his company. While the things she loves most about him exist in the present – his determination to succeed, his cooking – the rest of him seems mired in the swamp of a bygone era. His worldview is as modern and practical as his beeper store.

She talks to him, at him, with him, for hours on end, but the structural integrity of her argument makes little difference. Dennis is incapable of seeing her point, grows tired and confused and, finally, hungry.

Although she's certainly smart enough to best him, she's also smart enough to know when to give up.


	3. Humility

The light in the ballroom is a warm sort of goldish-red, spilling out of sconces and gilt candelabra like gravity-defying waterfalls. It spreads gently, kissing the heads and hairlines of old, wealthy bastards and the bejeweled hands of their dutifully beautiful wives. Across the dance floor, a banquet table covered in hors d'oeuvres glows under the luminous attention of a crystal chandelier. The champagne flute in her pale hand glitters in a way that seems both magical and wholly inappropriate. She is, after all, a fake girlfriend in a borrowed dress.

Jack stands next to her, leaning casually against the bar with a scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other. She has never seen him smoke before, didn't take him for the type, but he comes by it as naturally as Humphrey Bogart or Orson Welles. The cigar's paper is a dark, cool brown – almost black – and the small round label wrapped around its body is a pleasant green that complements his cufflinks, tiny silver replicas of the state seal of Massachusetts.

"You know," he says, exhaling a lazy plume of smoke, "although this is hardly your natural habitat, you certainly seem comfortable in it."

"Yeah, well, I Sparknoted _Atlas Shrugged_ before you picked me up."

"That's not what I mean."

She frowns, "Age joke? 'Cause I can't use the wrinkle cream you sent down to my office – it smells like ass."

"No, no jokes," he chuckles, carefully placing his tumbler on the surface of the bar. "Just… you look incredible. That's all."

A strange, heavy silence settles between them, dulling the jovial noise of Prince Gerhardt's birthday party. She shoots the rest of her champagne in an effort to suppress the profound sense of embarrassment she can feel at the edges of her skin.

Jack sighs.

"Good God, Lemon," He slips his cigar in between his teeth and reaches out, covering her cheeks with his large, warm hands. "It's called a compliment; the polite response is 'thank you.'"


	4. Chaos

If it's been a while since she's slept, she can no longer perceive it. Every physical symptom, from skeletal heaviness to scratchy eyelids, has faded into the dusky apathy of perfect exhaustion. Even the cool fluorescent lights, typically austere and accusatory, seem fuzzy, almost gentle. She can no longer sense each tiny beam sharpening her crow's feet. Today, she moves through the atmosphere with little to no resistance, floating from room to room as effortlessly as a debutant or an astronaut. Despite the fact that she hasn't showered in three days, she feels deliriously comfortable in her own skin. _I would not be embarrassed to die today,_ she thinks, smiling crookedly at nothing in particular.

This fever dream, the result of 20 hour workdays and unmanageable talent, inspires an odyssey – an expansive journey from the sixth floor to Jack's office. It's a pilgrimage she's made several times in the past week, but here, propping herself against the back wall of the elevator as it moves up, up, upward, there is no frustration or anger to preoccupy her thoughts. Her mental momentum slows gradually, and she soon finds herself bobbing, helpless, on the surface of consciousness.

When the elevator finally arrives at her floor, she exits with purpose, passing Jonathan's vacant post without as much as a blink. She is completely silent as she slips through the large, wooden doors of Jack's office, expecting to startle her newly appointed mentor as he gazes out the window, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

He's not there.

For some reason she no longer has the capacity to consider, tears begin to form at the backs of her eyes, sending a prickling sensation from the bridge of her nose down into her cheeks.

"Goddamn," she says.

Rather than returning to her show, her employees, she sits on the edge of the sofa and stares straight ahead at Jack's empty desk, fighting for control as gravity struggles to bring her head to rest on the throw pillows next to her. In the end, the gravity is the victor: she's asleep in less than three minutes.

Four hours later, when she returns to the world of the living, Jack is there to greet her.

"I don't know if you've heard," he says, eyes twinkling with both amusement and apprehension, "but this is my work space, not a Motel 6."


End file.
